Malicious Intent
by Oxymoronic Alliteration
Summary: Seven years ago, Jimmy helped put away a dangerous killer. Now, that same killer is on the loose and looking for retribution.
1. Chapter 1

_December 2001_

Jimmy huffed as he sprinted toward the science building, trying to pull his winter coat around him more tightly while simultaneously keeping a grip on his book bag. His exhales puffed out in tiny balls of smoke as they met the frigid air. He could already feel his nose turning red. He'd be stuck with a cold for the next couple of days, but it couldn't be avoided.

He'd been neglecting his studies. He hadn't meant to. Normally, Jimmy was very studious. But between problems with his mother, who had just broken off her engagement to her most recent beau, and being turned down as an intern by multiple law enforcement departments, he'd found it difficult to concentrate on school work. Now, he had two major projects due that week, as well as an exam that would count for a third of his biochemistry grade. That meant his one day off in over two weeks was to be spent holed up in an empty classroom trying to complete his analysis of a medical case in which a woman's stomach lining had begun corroding from her stomach acids, along with what he as a doctor would have done to treat the problem.

Was medical school supposed to be this hard? Probably. Otherwise everyone would try to be a doctor and make lots of money. Not that Jimmy was really interested in the money; there wasn't a big salary in pathology, which Jimmy was leaning toward as his specialty. The people who saved lives were the ones who saw the big bucks. The pathologist just sliced and diced. But that's what he liked about it. With medicine, it was pretty straight forward (not at all as interesting as television might lead you to believe). Pathology, though, was more than that. It was like being a detective. You get to look at the evidence and draw conclusions, help put away bad guys. At least, that's what Jimmy wanted.

Ever since he was a little boy, Jimmy had dreamed of adventure. His had come mostly in the form of books: _Treasure Island_, _The Three Musketeers_, _Moby Dick_. They had been his escape, his chance to feel brave. Because Jimmy wasn't very brave. He didn't like confrontation and blanched when faced with any real danger, be it an intimidating bully or an impending fender bender. Not exactly the thing great adventurers like Jim Hawkins and Captain Ahab were made of. He couldn't work as a cop or detective. He wouldn't know what to do with a gun and even if he did come face to face with a bad guy...well, let's just say he would be better off staying out of that field of work. At least with a career in autopsy he could be close to the action without having to be an active part of it, and he could feel like maybe, in his own way, he was doing his part to put bad guys in jail. It was probably the closest he'd ever get to doing that.

He pushed into the building, welcoming the overheated air, despite the fact that it turned his coat into a mini sauna. He needed to defrost before he could concentrate on anything else. There was a radiator in the chemistry where he could hang his wet winter clothing and he suspected he could use a Bunsen burner as a small fire to warm his fingers. No one else was likely to be here on a Sunday; he would have the entire building to himself.

Or maybe not.

He saw the door to the chemistry lab open down the hall, and out stepped a hulking frame Jimmy knew all too well. Patrick McConnell, a fellow student who had a terrible temper and a short fuse. He was infamous among his peers and, aside from his pristine academic record, no one really had a good thing to say about him. Jimmy could still remember the time he'd accidentally knocked over Patrick's drink in the cafeteria. Since then, he'd become something of a target for the Med School bully and Jimmy made it a point to stay away. Though the men were roughly the same age, somehow Patrick seemed older, though, maybe that was because when he was around, Jimmy felt like a high school freshman, ripe for bullying.

Patrick didn't see him; he looked preoccupied, though by what, Jimmy didn't know. Not wanting his already bad day to get worse, he quickly ducked into an open door and hid inside the empty room. He watched Patrick pass by, hands rolled into tight fists. His gait indicated he was angry about something…but then he always seemed angry about something. Only after Jimmy had watched Patrick exit the building did he come out of hiding, breathing a sigh of relief. Though he couldn't help giving himself an internal scolding for his cowardice. Sam Spade wouldn't have hidden from the bad guy.

As fortune would have it, Jimmy had arrived at the building just in time. Had he arrived earlier, he would have been forced to share the chemistry lab with Patrick. He probably would have preferred taking an F for all of the assignments.

When he entered the lab, he saw that one of the Bunsen burners was out and had a flame. Jimmy frowned; Patrick should have known better than to leave one of those out like that. Still, it saved him the trouble of having to do it himself. He pulled off his coat, scarf, and mittens, laying them over the radiator. With luck, they would be dry by the time he left. Right now he had to focus on his pharmacology project. Time to enter the ever-so-fascinating world of acetaphetamine.

He would later state that he saw the hand first. It was peeking out from behind one of the lab counters, the fingers moving slowly as if trying to grasp for something. That was when he heard the soft groans.

It was Danielle Frasier, a fellow student. She was lying on the ground, still donning the necessary lab coat, goggles, and gloves that were required when working in the chemistry lab. The blood was pooling under her head, dripping from the terrible gash on the back of her head. Quite frankly, Jimmy was surprised she was even moving.

"Oh…oh my God," he muttered. What to do? Call 911, stupid. "Hello…yes I need an ambulance right away. There's a woman here and she's badly hurt."

"P..trick…" Her mouth was barely moving, but he heard her say something.

"What was that?"

Her eyes opened and strained to look up, trying to see who was beside her. "P-Pa…Patrick."

His heart almost stopped. He hadn't even entertained the thought of who had done this or how it had happened. Sure, Patrick was mean, but was he capable of this brutality?

"Just hold on," he said quietly, not sure what else to say. "Someone's coming to help." The blood was oozing out, wetting her hair and staining her skin. He wanted to vomit. Or run. Or both.

All of the medical training in the world couldn't have prepared Jimmy for this.

* * *

><p><em>Present Day<em>

The call came as Jimmy was enjoying the rest of his lunch. He'd decided to try out the deli on the corner instead of brown bagging it that day and was sitting at an outdoor table, enjoying the warm summer day.

"Hi, Mr. Babcock," he greeted, having recognized the number.

"_Jimmy, we've known each other for almost nine years now. You can call me Will._"

"Sorry…Will." Jimmy wasn't always sure how to behave around the District Attorney. He owed Will a lot and considered him a friend, but for Jimmy, he would always be a lawyer first. "How are things?"

"_Just fine. Suzy just had her thirteenth birthday and I'm getting accustomed to raising a teenage girl. How about you? How is your mother?_"

"She's fine. She remarried two years ago. So far, it seems to be sticking."

"_Good to hear. And work? Are you still with NCIS?_"

"They haven't kicked me out yet."

"_I'm glad. They're lucky to have you. I always knew you were a bright kid._"

Jimmy took a sip of his iced tea, waiting for Will to get to the point. He wasn't the type to call just to check up. He had something important to tell him.

"_So, I'm sure you're wondering why I'm calling. As you know, Patrick McConnell had his first parole hearing today._"

Jimmy nodded. It was a tense day for him. Just the thought that Patrick might get out of jail was daunting. "How did it go?"

Will sighed. "_Not well, Jimmy. Not well._"

His mouth went dry. "Oh? What do you mean?"

"_Jimmy, the case was never as solid as I would have liked it._" That was not a good answer.

"Will…no…"

"_We're lucky we got what we did. I'm sorry. I fought, I swear I did, but they weren't listening. As of 2:30 pm this afternoon, Patrick McConnell will be a free man._"


	2. Chapter 2

_May 2003_

It had been a long year and a half for Jimmy. Between the police interviews, the depositions, the countless meetings with the District Attorney, and the original trial (which had culminated with a hung jury), he was convinced he never wanted to tangle with the American judicial system ever again. Not that he had been particularly keen to do so this time.

The evidence had been sparse. Sure, Patrick's fingerprints had been found at the crime scene, but he was a student who often used that equipment for his studies, so why wouldn't they have been there? Yes, Patrick was known for his temper—often bordering on violent eruptions—but that was purely objective, and his temper had never resulted in bodily harm in the past (at least, not as far as anyone knew). There were no video cameras to show that Patrick had even been in the building that day. Danielle had recovered from the head wound, which had resulted from her head being smashed against the side of the lab counter, but she claimed to have no knowledge of who had done this to her. She didn't even remember whispering Patrick's name to Jimmy.

Whether she truly had a blank memory on the ordeal or was saying so out of fear, Jimmy didn't know. Either way, it left him as the only witness in the case and the prosecutions best asset.

"Just stick to the story, Jimmy," Will instructed as they waited in the courthouse lobby. The re-trial had begun a week earlier with the prosecution submitting their evidence—the fingerprints, the bloodstained clothing they'd recovered from Patrick's dirty clothes hamper, the pictures of Danielle's wounds—as well as character witnesses who would speak to the sort of man Patrick was. They had set before the jury the idea that Patrick had attacked Danielle in a fit of rage after discovering that she had been accepted over him for a prestigious fellowship. He had wrapped his hands around her neck and had bashed her head into the lab table before leaving her to die, so they claimed.

"I'll do my best, Mr. Babcock."

"Call me Will. And don't worry. Last time we only had one person voting not guilty. I can read juries, and this one can see McConnell for the ruthless thug he is. Just tell them what you saw."

He nodded mutely and nervously straightened his tie. How did a guy like him end up as the star witness in an attempted murder case?

The day went like clockwork. The session began and the court reporter recounted the previous day. Will retook his place, calling upon Jimmy to take the stand. They had rehearsed this many a time and Jimmy wasn't nervous. He knew exactly what he was saying.

It was the defense attorney that scared him. George Brooks was a shrewd attorney who could sniff out a person's weakness and exploit it, twisting around their words until even they weren't sure of their own testimony. Brooks had made him get tongue twisted more than once during the first trial and now Jimmy was afraid history would repeat itself.

"Mr. Palmer," Brooks said cordially as he began the cross-examination. His eyes were piercing, though; smug and determined. "You claim you saw my client exiting the chemistry lab just moments before you entered."

"Y-yes, sir."

"Funny. I would think if he were brutal enough to try and kill a fellow classmate, he wouldn't leave a potential witness."

"He didn't see me."

"Oh? And why is that?"

"I ducked into a classroom until he'd passed. Patrick…he's an angry guy. I don't like running into him."

"I see. And you claim he seemed angry?"

"Yes. Very angry."

"And that you saw what you think could have been blood on his clothes? Yet you didn't think anything of it?"

"I didn't see his clothes very well. I only thought they could be blood."

"So you saw him well enough to know it was Mr. McConnell, but you did not see his clothing that well? Perhaps you only thought it could be him, just as you only thought the stains could be blood."

"No…no it was him, I'm sure of it. He's very memorable."

"Memorable enough that one might see him as a reasonable scapegoat?"

Will was on his feet. "Objection your honor!"

"Sustained. Let's stay on topic Mr. Brooks."

"Tell me, Mr. Palmer, had you applied for any positions in the weeks before the attack on Ms. Frasier?"

Jimmy frowned. "Yes, sir. I had applied to be an intern with the FBI, Metro Police, and NCIS."

"I see. And were you accepted for any of them?"

He slumped. "No."

"And yet, did you become violent and enraged?"

"No."

"Rejection is a part of the application process, is it not?"

"Yes."

"So why would a man with the skill and accomplishments of Mr. McConnell react so violently to being passed over for a fellowship? As you say, it's part of the process."

"Patrick really wanted that fellowship, though. It was with Dr. Stetson, probably the best neurologist in the country. Lots of people would ki—" He stopped himself short of saying it, growing red in the face.

"Yes? You were saying?"

"A lot of people wanted it," he whispered.

"So why suspect Patrick? Why not one of the others who was rejected?"

"Because he wanted it more than any of them. And he was a pretty sexist guy."

"Sexist? Explain to me please."

"Well, it's just that I'd heard about him giving female students a hard time, and—"

"You heard? From whom? Him?"

"No, other students."

"So that's just hearsay, then isn't it?"

"Uh, I suppose."

"Your honor, I request that Mr. Palmer's statement on my client's supposed prejudices be stricken from the record."

"Sustained. Please remove all comments of Mr. McConnell being sexist."

And so the cross-examination continued. Jimmy held strong this time—stronger than he had the first time—but Brooks was good; he managed to get a few jabs in there of his own. Still, Jimmy liked to think he'd had more wins than losses in the cross-examination. Will's nod indicated that he had.

When he was released from the stand, he finally caught Patrick's eye. Even in a suit and tie, the man made Jimmy feel two feet tall. His brown eyes bore into Jimmy, making him shake to his very core. He knew that Patrick wouldn't soon forget him. Jimmy only hoped he'd never have to see that face again.

* * *

><p><em>Present Day<em>

A free man. How could that be? It wasn't supposed to be like that. They were supposed to lock him up and throw away the key. That was how it worked. Right?

Jimmy was unusually quiet that day. He made no inappropriate jokes or comments, nor did he stutter nervously when Gibbs was around. His body was present, but his mind was elsewhere, Ducky could see. He didn't try to get it out of him—if Jimmy wanted to talk he would—but he did take extra care, not getting angry even when Jimmy accidentally removed the spleen instead of the liver or when he knocked over the tray of tools.

"Yes, well, I think we've had enough work for today, Mr. Palmer," Ducky said as they sutured up their latest corpse. "I for one am looking forward to a nice brandy and an evening with Tolstoy. I do hope your evening is equally enjoyable."

Enjoyable? Not likely. "Thank you, Dr. Mallard."

Ducky began to grab his things and Jimmy did the same, somberly silent. Ducky couldn't help speaking up. "If something is troubling you, my boy, you know I always have an open ear."

"I know." Jimmy managed a smile. "Just…just tired, I guess. It's been a long week."

"Indeed it has. Hopefully we'll have a lighter load these next couple of days. Well, good night."

"Good night, Doctor."

* * *

><p>The parking lot seemed so dark and desolate as he walked to his car. The thought that Patrick could be lurking somewhere in the dark made the walk even more nerve-wracking. He held his breath, eyes darting back and forth, as though he may catch sight of something in the shadows.<p>

And then he heard it. The footsteps coming up behind him. What to do? Turn around? Shout for help? Try and fight him?

As he stood there pondering his options, a hand fell upon his shoulder. Jimmy reacted the best way he knew how: by letting out a yelp and twisting out of the grip.

"Whoa! Jimmy! It's just me."

Tim stood before him looking quite perplexed by the reaction, and with good reason. "Oh, hi, McGee."

"What's wrong with you?"

"N-nothing…just a little jumpy, I guess."

"Obviously," Tim said, eyebrow raised. "I hate to ask, but could I get a ride home? My car as decided it doesn't want to work tonight and the tow truck said they can't get here for another hour, at least."

"Oh, a ride. Uh, I guess." Tim didn't really live near him, but it wasn't a far enough drive for him to say no. Besides, it might be good for him to be with someone that night. It would put him at ease."

"Thanks. Hey, have you eaten? There's this nice Mexican place I know. It's on the way. My treat."

It suddenly occurred to Jimmy that he was hungry. His last meal had been lunch and he hadn't been in the mood to eat after his phone call with Will. He needed to eat to live, after all.

"Sure," he agreed.

"And over dinner, you can tell me what's bothering you."

"What?"

Tim leveled him with a look. "Something's on your mind, Palmer. You don't have the best poker face."

"You're not exactly one to talk."

"Fair enough," he conceded with a shrug. "Still, nothing ever seems so bad when you've got a bottomless bowl of chips and guacamole."

Jimmy shook his head, but didn't argue as they got into the car. "McGee, you have no idea."


	3. Chapter 3

"And so they found him guilty?" Tim asked as he scooped his corn chip into the guacamole. Jimmy had explained the situation as they'd split an appetizer of chips and dip.

"Well, yes, but not quite as Mr. Babcock had expected. Patrick's lawyer finally had him plead not guilty by reason of temporary insanity or something. The jury ended up agreeing to charge him with assault, but not attempted murder. He was sentenced for five to ten, with five years of mandatory anger management. Since the first trial had ended with a hung jury, Mr. Babcock figured this was our best chance," he said with a grim frown. "I mean, I knew he wouldn't be in prison forever. I had just hoped it would be a little longer."

"Maybe he's changed. I mean, the right therapy can do wonders for someone." Even Tim didn't believe his words. Not that rehabilitation wasn't possible, but he had rarely seen convicts exit prison any differently than they'd gone in, especially ones who seemed to blame everyone else for their failings. "So what happened to the girl? Danielle?"

"She had to forfeit the fellowship due to her injuries. She moved back home with her parents in Pennsylvania and I haven't heard from her since. I mean, we weren't close friends or anything. But she doesn't have anything to worry about; I'm the one who testified against him."

"That took a lot of guts, Jimmy."

"Guts aren't going to do me much good now."

"You really think he's going to be out for blood?"

"If you knew him, you'd think the same thing. I don't think forgive and forget are part of his vocabulary."

Tim considered this as he finished off the last of their appetizer. "Why don't you talk to Gibbs?" he asked

"What?"

"He'll know what to do."

Talk to Gibbs? Leroy Jethro Gibbs? The guy who could make even the most hardened criminal break down? Jimmy shuddered. He'd almost rather face Patrick. "I don't think so."

"Why not?"

"Well, I'm sure he'd rather focus on his own work right now, and since I'm not enlisted, my safety doesn't exactly fall under NCIS jurisdiction."

"You're still an employee, Jimmy. And you're on Gibbs' team; he always has time for someone on his team."

"I'm not on his team. I'm not on anyone's team. I'm the Autopsy Gremlin, remember?" he asked with a wry grin. "And anyway, I'm not very good about talking to Gibbs. He makes me feel so nervous, like I'm being studied under a microscope."

"It's not just you. Everyone seems to have that problem with him. Just give it some time."

"It took me two years to stop stuttering around Dr. Mallard and he's only about a tenth as intimidating as Gibbs. By the time I've worked up the courage to talk to him, he'll be retired…permanently this time."

Tim was poised to rebut that claim, but found he couldn't. As much as he admired and respected Gibbs, he had to admit his boss had a way of putting others on edge. He had seen him almost every day for the past seven or so years, so he'd had more experience with Gibbs and his mannerisms; Jimmy was only occasionally at NCIS, and some days he didn't have to interact with Gibbs or the team, so he hadn't had a chance to grow accustomed to the way Gibbs was. "Okay, so Gibbs is out. You should at least talk to Ducky."

Jimmy shrugged. "I don't want to be a burden. I mean, it's probably nothing anyway, like you said."

"What does the DA think? Mr. Babcock?"

"He couldn't talk much when he called because he had a hearing that afternoon, but he told me he'd call tomorrow and we could discuss my options. I could get a restraining order, but I'd have to show proof that Patrick would intend to harass or harm me. And besides, what good would that do? He's not the type to stay away just because the law tells him to. In fact, I think it'd spurn him on even more, like he'd get a thrill from knowing he was breaking the law."

The waitress arrived with their enchiladas and a refill for their drinks. Jimmy poked at his meal with a fork, suddenly finding himself with no appetite. "I know I'm probably getting worked up over nothing."

"No, I think your concern is valid. I'd hate to think about someone I've put away getting out. But I think you should be careful not to jump to any conclusions. Talk to the DA tomorrow and see what your options are. And tell Ducky. He'll want to help."

"If you say so." He pushed aside anymore thoughts of Patrick and the stressful trials. He hated to feel like such a sourpuss when Tim was treating him to dinner. Jimmy plucked up his food and took a hearty bite; he was hungrier than he thought.

Tonight he would relax and forget that Patrick McConnell even existed. Tomorrow would be a better day.

* * *

><p>Outside, he waited. He had nowhere else to go, no one waiting for him to get out. His parole officer had given him an address for a halfway house along with money for a room. He'd be checking in here and there, of course, making sure all was well. He would put on his best smile, show the officer that all was fine, that he loved living in some scummy motel meant for ex-cons and other street trash, that he would do anything to keep from going back to jail.<p>

That last part was true. He had no intention of ever going back to that hellhole. His time spent there hadn't made him guilty or sorry for his sins; it had only made him resent the prison even more, along with those who had put him here.

Many a night he'd sat in his cell, anger bubbling up inside as he thought about his situation and about what he could have done to avoid it. If only he'd seen the little twerp. He could have taken care of him the same way he had that bitch. Better yet, she'd probably be dead, not out living her life. Unlike him. Even with his freedom, what did he have to look forward to? He couldn't work; not the work he wanted, anyway. The work he had spent a fortune to study. The countless jobs he'd held to make ends meet, even forgoing sleep now and then just to scrap together enough for the rent and food. He had put his sweat and blood into studying medicine, and now it had been taken away from him.

Someone was going to pay for it. That much he knew.

So he waited outside, in his car, watching. He could wait there all night. His life had prepared him for sleepless nights, for complete vigilance.

Patrick McConnell was man hell bent on vengeance and he was well-prepared to take down anyone who stood in his way.

* * *

><p>The pair finished their meal and Tim settled the bill. It was a small price for getting a ride home. Besides, he felt like he'd had a chance to get to know Jimmy better. They didn't exactly interact much outside of work, and it seemed like if ever there was a night that Jimmy needed to talk to someone, it was that night.<p>

"Thanks again for the ride," he said as they walked out to Jimmy's car. "My apartment is about fifteen miles north of here. Just follow that street until you see Market St."

Jimmy flicked the headlights on as he backed out of the parking space. Not only was it dark, but a soft mist had rolled out onto the street, bringing with it an omen of rain. "You sure do live off the beaten path don't you?" he muttered. The street took him through a long stretch of woods that looked like it would never end. Without a street lamp in sight, his vision was further obscured, forcing him to turn on his brights.

"It's actually more suburban than this," Tim said. "Once you get through here, that is."

"Is this why you moved from Silver Springs?"

"The woods? Partly, I guess. My apartment wasn't near a park or field, so taking Jethro out and making sure he got proper exercise became difficult. Here, I can walk a few blocks and let him run around in all the dirt he wants. Besides, it's nice to have a place to go camping now and then. The boys in my WEBLOS troop appreciate it."

Jimmy had to smile in spite of himself. As hard as it was to imagine, he could remember Tim's brief appearance at NCIS with his WEBLOS troop. He had never been much for outdoors himself (the one survival training course he had taken had resulted in one of the worst weekends of his life), but he could appreciate the idea of allowing yourself to be one with nature, as some of his outdoorsy friends said. Kind of the same way he felt most comfortable cutting into dead people.

"I guess I can understand that," he said. "Still, I hate driving through these kinds of areas."

"Why's that?"

"Are you kidding me? Little light, not many cars coming through, narrow streets, and a pretty steep fall? You make one little slip and you could be careening down there to your death. And if you don't die immediately from the crash, you'll probably end up dying from starvation or dehydration or exposure to the elements."

Tim snorted. "You've given this a lot of thought."

"It kind of comes with the job. I always imagine everything that could possibly go wrong in any given situation. Makes figuring out a cause of death easier."

"Yeah, well I think you can stop worrying in this case. Most people who crash here have either been drinking heavily or they're driving recklessly. I doubt we're going to go careening off this road."

Jimmy gripped the steering wheel all the same, keeping his eyes glued to the road. He bobbed only a little above the limit simply to get through the woods as quickly as possible.

Another pair of headlights appeared on the road behind them, rushing up quickly. Jimmy grimaced and squinted his eyes in response to the lights reflecting in his rearview mirror. "Being blinded by this guy doesn't help much."

"He looks like he's in a rush so he'll probably just go around you," Tim said. He was wary of how close the car was coming to Jimmy's bumper. "You can slow down if you need to."

Jimmy nodded as he eased up on the gas pedal and the speedometer needle began to dip to almost ten below the limit.

Expecting the vehicle—a black truck, they could now see—to pull into the left lane and angrily speed in front of them, both men were equally surprised when the truck remained behind them. As they slowed, it slowed, never falling back any further than a foot behind them. It was unsettling.

"Maybe you should pull over?" Tim suggested. "Let him pass?"

"I don't think he's interested in passing, McGee."

"Yeah, I'm starting to get that feeling." Tim patted his side; his gun was there. At least he could find relief in that much. "Pull over. If this guy pulls over too, we'll know he's following us. Don't even turn off the engine; just hit the gas if it looks like he'll try something."

Jimmy nodded and did as Tim instructed, even as his stomach flopped. He slowly pulled the car to the side of the road, careful to keep it from being too close to the edge. The truck didn't pull behind him, but it also didn't roll on past. Instead, it came to stop right in the middle of the road, engine still running and headlights shining.

"What in the world…?" Tim racked his brain to figure out who could be tailing them. With the amount of people the team had put away, there was a staggering number of possible assailants who might be in the truck, seeking revenge on behalf of someone else, or even on their own behalf.

"Should I go?" Jimmy asked, his foot resting atop the gas pedal.

That's when the back window and windshield broke. Shattered would actually be a better word. It took a second for Tim to realize that a gunshot had preceded the breaking glass. "Head down!" he shouted, though Jimmy was way ahead of him. He'd already bent his torso down, pressing his stomach against his knees.

Tim snatched his gun from the holster and slipped down so that he was partially sitting on the floor in front of his seat. "I can't get a good look at him," he muttered. The truck was still behind them. The front was visible through the back left window and the bed of the truck was visible out the back window, but he couldn't get a shot at the driver. He would have to pull himself closer.

"Stay where you are," he told Jimmy. He feared if either of them sat up another bullet would fly and this time it wouldn't miss. Satisfied that Jimmy was staying put, Tim slowly crawled between the seats and situated himself along the back, lying on his stomach. He needed to see where the driver's seat was if he wanted to get a shot in. He peeked through hole in the back window and saw the front windshield of the truck. The windows were tinted, making it impossible to see who was in there or where they were sitting, but it was enough that Tim could try to make a hit. He hoped he made a hit.

Jimmy was busy saying a silent prayer. He wasn't overtly religious, but in times like these he couldn't help but ask for a little divine intervention. Hands clasped, he mouthed the Our Father (the only prayer he knew) over and over. He noticed the silence in the back—save for Tim's heavy breathing—but he didn't dare turn to see what was going on.

Tim lowered his head as much as he could and brought the barrel of the gun up to the top of the backseat. He let it sit atop the cushioning so as to steady it in his shaking hand. "I'm about to shoot, Jimmy," he warned so as not to frighten his friend. "Just…just stay down." Then, he counted to three and pulled the trigger.

The bullet hit the windshield, as did the second bullet. The third managed to take out one of the headlights as well. But the driver wasn't hit. Through the destroyed windshield, Tim could see the man crouched down behind the wheel. When he sat up, he returned fire with a handgun. Another bullet flew into the car, barely missing Tim's head, and a few more hit the car hard enough to make both men jump.

Jimmy's head popped up and he caught sight of the shooter in his rearview mirror. His breath caught in his throat as he gaped at the face he knew all too well. "Patrick," he rasped. "It's Patrick!"

"What?"

"It's him, McGee!"

Patrick McConnell's face shattered into pieces as a bullet hit the mirror, sending Jimmy back into his hunched position.

"Drive, Palmer!" Tim shouted from the back. They couldn't fight this guy here. He had a better angle on them than they had on him.

Jimmy tried to start the car best he could. He twisted the key, tugged on the wheel, and pumped the break as hard as he could, but the car refused to come to life. "We're stuck," he yelled.

Tim uttered a few choice words that would have made his mother threaten to wash his mouth out with soap. "Get me my cell phone. I'll have to call someone."

"Do you really think they'll get here in time?"

"Unless you have a better idea, I think it's our only option."

But Jimmy didn't even have a chance to unbuckle his seatbelt before the truck revved behind them and burst forward. It connected with the bumper of the car, knocking it, and them, forward. It backed up and slammed forward once more, this time pushing Jimmy's car. It inched along the way, grunting and screeching with every move.

Jimmy clutched the wheel and squeezed his eyes closed. It was his worst fear coming true. "He's going to push us over," he moaned.

Tim knew it was coming and nothing he did was going to stop it. He sent a few more shots toward Patrick, but he was disoriented and his aim was off. Soon he heard the ominous clicks, letting him know the round was spent. No more bullets, at least none readily available. They were in his pack, nestled in the trunk of Jimmy's car. They were sitting ducks for whatever was to come.

He had enough time to pull himself into the front passenger seat, but then the car went over, flipping on its way down and ending with a sickening crunch.

* * *

><p>Patrick got out of the car and lit a cigarette as he looked down into the darkness of the woods. He'd expected Palmer, but had been surprised to see he wasn't alone. Another man had exited the restaurant with him and got into the car. A friend, perhaps? Whoever the guy was he was unlucky enough to have been in the wrong place at the wrong time.<p>

He'd heard the car hit the ground with a satisfying thud. It was a mighty long way to fall, but not impossible to survive. He didn't want to take the chance of them surviving. He knew his father always kept a gun underneath the seat cushions of his truck. He liked to hide it because it wasn't technically registered. They would be injured, no doubt, and would be waiting there like sitting ducks. A few pops and it'd be all over.

He turned to look at the truck. Would his father be surprised when he opened the front door the next morning and saw it in that condition! Patrick had taken the keys while the old man had lain sprawled out on the couch, dead drunk and clutching a beer in his hand. His father wouldn't remember anything about the night (he never did) and would assume he'd done the damage himself after a long night of drunk driving. It wouldn't have been the first time, that was for sure. He'd quietly take care of the damages himself so as not to arouse suspicions (on the off chance he'd hit somebody) and would never be the wiser.

But the night was young and there was still a score to settle. Patrick reached into the carriage of the truck and began pulling up the seat. That's when the headlights flashed around the corner and he saw the approaching car. Not even a car; an SUV, filled with a bunch of rowdy teenagers if the blaring music was any indicator.

"Dude!" one of them shouted as they stopped beside him. "What happened to your truck?"

Patrick managed a wry grin. "Deer jumped out into the road. I swerved, hit a tree, and, well, you can see the rest."

"That is a massive crash," the driver said, turning off the engine. "My dad's got a tow truck. I can call him for you."

"No, that's okay," Patrick assured them.

"Well, you should at least call the cops and file a report. You know, just in case."

Call the cops? That couldn't happen. Patrick itched to grab the gun and shoot, but he couldn't. For one thing, he didn't know how many others were in the vehicle and whether or not they were armed. It was unlikely, but not out of the question. Second, he only had a limited number of ammo and he wanted to use those bullets wisely. And third…well, the last thing he needed was to leave an SUV of dead teenagers in the middle of the road.

"Actually, I figured I'd just drive the car to the police station and then get the tow truck to meet me there. She'll still run; I just need to go a little slower." He said the words through gritted teeth. There was no getting out of this one. He would have to come back later. Hopefully, they'd be waiting for him when he did.


	4. Chapter 4

"Jimmy…Jimmy!"

He let out a moan. "What?"

"Wake up."

"Can't…tired…"

"Up!"

The voice was forceful enough that Jimmy peeked out, not sure who he expected to see. He sure didn't expect to see Tim staring at him, his left arm cradled in his right. He also didn't expect to see the steering wheel right in front of his face. Had he fallen asleep at the wheel? It would certainly explain the crash that they seemed to have been in (how else had his car been totaled?). "What…what happened?"

"Your old buddy Patrick, remember?" Tim asked with a wince.

That's when it came surging back. The way Patrick had shot at them and then pushed them off the road, to an almost certain death. The fact that they weren't dead was actually a surprise to Jimmy. In fact, save for his splitting headache and the pain in his nose, he seemed to be relatively unharmed. "McGee…?"

"Your seatbelt kept you pretty secured," Tim said as if reading his mind. "Then you hit your head on the wheel when we landed. Well, you hit just as the airbag deployed, so it kind of knocked you back, I guess. Looks like it did a number on your nose."

Jimmy reached up and touched just below his nose and found dried blood caked along his skin. "What about you?"

Tim smiled wryly. "I'm pretty sure I know what it feels like to be clothes in a dryer. I got bounced around a lot. I think I broke my arm. When the airbag hit me, I got dizzy and passed out for a while. I also threw up a little," he added, motioning to a wet spot on the floor of the car. "Sorry about that."

"I think vomit is the least of my worries," Jimmy said as he lay back in his seat. He surveyed the damage of his car. Dents and scrapes and cracks. Not really salvageable. Definitely not useable at the moment. This left them with very few options. "Do you think he'll come back? Try and finish us off?"

"Possible." By the frown on Tim's face, Jimmy assumed it was less a possibility and more a probability.

"We should call someone."

"Phones are broken. Anyway, you can't really get a signal out here."

"So where does that leave us?"

"Up a creek without a paddle?" Tim suggested.

"There's a more vulgar name for it."

"Yeah, but my mother doesn't like me using that kind of language."

"I'm pretty sure she can't hear you all the way out here. No one could, except for me."

Tim grinned. "You don't know my mom. I think she's got some supersonic hearing or something. She knows everything."

"Well, if we're lucky she'll hear you and send help."

"I hope so," Tim mumbled as he gently pulled his broken arm closer against him. "I do hope so."

* * *

><p>As if his luck couldn't get any worse, the kids had decided to be Good Samaritans for the day and follow him to the police station. "Just in case something happens," the driver of the car said. "That thing might break down on the interstate, and then where would you be?"<p>

_Away from you brats_, he thought as he plastered a smile on his face. Despite telling them countless times that he didn't need an escort, he soon gave in and allowed them to follow him to a police station located about ten miles from the woods. He gripped the wheel and drove in strange zig-zag patterns, speeding up suddenly and making sharp, quick turns, hoping to lose them. But they remained on his tail, pulling into the parking lot along with him.

"I think I can take it from here, guys," he said, giving them a wave to go on.

"You sure man?" asked the kid in the front passenger seat. "That's a pretty badass wreckage."

"Yeah," one from the back chimed in, "you may want us to testify that you weren't drunk or anything and that you didn't imagine the deer."

Patrick got the idea that none of them had ever been this close to a crash or to anything involving cops and were excited by the thrill of being involved with police business. "I'll be fine. But thanks for the concern."

With identical shrugs, the boys conceded and drove off. Patrick took his time to get out of the truck and pretend like he was going to go in to file the report. Which he wasn't, of course. The last thing he needed was to be dealing with cops. They'd know he was an ex-con without having to check and they'd pounce like a lion lying in wait. He had to get back to the woods and finish them off.

Assuming the crash hadn't already done that.

* * *

><p>Jimmy gently reached up and touched his head. That was a big mistake. Pain exploded, almost blinding him. He let out a soft moan.<p>

"You okay?"

"No," he muttered. "Head…hurts…"

"You hit it pretty hard. Think you've got a concussion?"

"I don't know."

"You're the doctor, Palmer."

He sighed. "It's…it's possible, but I'd need to run a few more tests before concluding anything."

"Got any medicine?"

Jimmy pointed to the glove compartment. "There should be some aspirin in there."

With his good arm, Tim opened the compartment and fished around until he located the bottle. He handed the bottle to Jimmy. "Two for you, two for me," Jimmy said as he poured them into his hand. "I don't have any water, so you'll have to dry swallow."

"Anything to dull the pain." Tim knocked them back and forced them down. "You wouldn't happen to have a cast or something in that magic glove compartment of yours, would you?"

"No, but I should have a sweatshirt in the back seat," he said as he unbuckled his seatbelt. He crawled into the back slowly and retrieved said sweatshirt from the floor. "We can make this into a sling. It won't be perfect and it'll still hurt, but you can give your right arm a break."

"Thanks," Tim said.

Jimmy wrapped the sweatshirt around the broken arm as gently as he could, before tying the sleeves around Tim's neck to keep it elevated. Tim winced and inhaled a number of times, signs of his pain and discomfort, but he managed to keep his cool, given the circumstance.

"So what should we do now?" Tim was the special agent; he should know what to do.

"It's late. We were out for almost an hour and I have to think that if Patrick were going to finish us off, he'd have done it by now. Anyway, it's not like we're in any shape to fight him off."

"We could go look for help."

Tim looked up toward the road. It seemed so high, so far away from them "How? It's too steep. We could never climb that. I sure couldn't with this arm, and I don't think you should try with a possible concussion."

"Well, then find another way back to the road. There has to be a way for people to get down here."

"It's dark. It's late. We'd end up getting lost and be in a worse position than we already are."

"Come on, McGee! I thought you said you went camping here!"

"I do! Just not in this specific area. I couldn't even begin to guess where we are, and even if I did know, I'm in no condition to be walking around, searching for someone."

"So we should just sit here?"

Tim leaned back and closed his eyes. He was so tired. "At least until morning. When it's light, we'll have a better chance. Right now, though…we'd just get ourselves in deeper."

Jimmy sighed and followed suit. "I guess getting some shut eye could help."

"Are you allowed to sleep? I mean with a concussion? I thought they always said not to."

"It's a common misconception. Sleep actually helps. It's when you have trouble waking up after a concussion that you need to worry."

"Well, in that case, I'll take the first shift."

"Shift?"

"Watch. You get some rest and I'll try to keep an eye out. I'll wake you in about an hour and we'll switch off. Okay?"

Jimmy nodded, suddenly afraid of what things they might have to watch for, even aside from Patrick. "Hey, McGee?"

"Yeah, Jimmy?"

"There aren't any, uh, bears in these woods, are there?"

Tim let out a low chuckle. "None that I've ever seen. Anyway," he added, patting his gun, "I've got a few more bullets in my bag. We're armed."

"I'll take your word for it." He didn't mention the fact that Tim's left hand was of no use, meaning his aim might be off from shooting right-handed. Instead, Jimmy reclined the seat and rolled onto his side, facing the door. With his arm crooked under his head, he tried to sleep.

His dreams were filled with thoughts of Patrick McConnell.

* * *

><p>He should have marked the spot, Patrick realized as he drove down the stretch of road that ran through the woods. He had gone up and down at least twice at varying speeds, trying to find the exact place where he'd pushed them over. Unfortunately, these woods had seen more than one violent accident, meaning there were too many skid marks on the road and tire marks in the dirt to determine where he'd pushed them, especially in the dark.<p>

It was getting late and he didn't want to risk someone else seeing him on the road. Besides, the old man would be up in a couple of hours to go to work at the factory. He'd notice if his truck was missing and he'd know who had taken it.

Mouth ground into an angry frown, he hit the gas and sped along to return the "borrowed" vehicle before his dad was any the wiser. He knew if he got caught, his dad would waste no time exacting his own punishment on his miscreant son. He could remember the years growing up in that house, the whippings over the most petty of things, and the constant reminder that he would never become anything worth while.

To be quite honest, Patrick was shocked he'd done as well as he had. Maybe it was the steely determination that had rung inside of him every time his father said that, or the idea that he didn't want to end up like his father: a slovenly, drunk man whose wife had left him for greener pastures. He wanted something better for his life than that.

So he'd started studying hard and making good grades. When he got a full scholarship to study pre-med, he took it and kissed everything else good-bye. He could have lived with his father and commuted, but why bother? That would just be a distraction. He moved out as soon as possible and started working. He waited tables, mowed lawns, cleaned gutters, washed cars—anything to make a buck. And he'd studied, always keeping a good grade point average and never risking the loss of his scholarship.

Then he'd gone on to med school, once again working hard and saving money, balancing his academic life with his work life; there was no time for a social life. He studied and worked and slept. If he had nothing to do, he would work out, keep his body in top form. He wasn't going to suffer the dreaded beer-belly that plagued all the men in his family.

He had been so close to it all. And then he'd lost that damned fellowship. And to that spoiled brat of all people! Despite what people seemed to think, it hadn't been the fact that she was female that had set Patrick off; no, it had been the fact that she was a snob who had been born with a silver spoon in her mouth. Her father had been a doctor and his father before him. All she had to do was give her name and she could get into any school, and she didn't have to pay for a thing. Nope, Mommy and Daddy took care of that. Little Danielle Fischer just had to show up and the world was her oyster shell. So of course he had been passed over for her; he hadn't had a chance of getting it, not with Miss Priss applying. So he'd gone off on her, and he didn't regret it. She'd had it coming. What he regretted was getting caught. That part really stuck in his craw.

So close to the things he wanted, to escaping his father's prophecy, to making a better life for himself. Now, it seemed, his father had been right. Patrick would never make anything of himself. He was a con—worse than even his old man had been—and nothing could change that. His life was over as far as he was concerned, so it only made sense that he return to the favor to the wimp who'd done him in.

He finally pulled onto his street in one of the worse parts of town. It was the part of town where even if you saw a crime, you didn't dare report it in fear of being labeled a snitch. Here, everyone had their nose in your business, but kept it to themselves to gossip amongst each other. No one had a high paying job or aspirations of anything beyond their current lifestyle.

Patrick pulled the truck into the driveway. It was still dark out, not quite dawn. He killed the engine and walked to the house. The old man never locked the door. When he opened it, his father was still in the same spot where he'd left him: asleep in his old easy chair with the TV on, showing some infomercial for hair-loss remedies. Old man hadn't even come to see him when he'd been released from jail that afternoon. He was probably trying to forget he'd ever even had a son.

Patrick dropped the keys on the table and walked out silently. Once on the street, he began walking. He couldn't sleep. He would grab a cup of coffee and an early breakfast at the diner a few miles away, then catch the nearest bus back to the half-way house. He knew he could bum a ride from the junkie living next door to him. He'd trade a little cocaine for the guy's beat-up car and head out at first light.

As he walked, Patrick pulled out a cigarette—one of the many bad habits he'd picked up during his prison stay. He lit it and stared up at the moon, wondering if Palmer was looking at the same moon as he sat huddled in his car like a scared rabbit.


	5. Chapter 5

_June 2003_

"Mr. Foreman, has the jury reached a decision?"

"Yes, your honor."

The bailiff took the paper from the jury foreman and brought it over to the judge. He opened it and looked over his contents before turning back to them. "Please read your verdict aloud."

"In the charge of attempted murder, we, the jury, find the defendant not guilty."

A strange murmur ran through the crowd as that had not at all been expected. Jimmy felt himself almost melt into his seat. Not guilty? That was impossible. How could they have decided he wasn't guilty?

"In the charge of aggravated assault," the foreman continued, " we, the jury, find the defendant guilty with the recommendation that the defendant undergo mandatory anger management counseling during his incarceration."

"Very well," the judge said, banging his gavel to silence the court. "Sentencing will take place one week from today. Thank you for your services, members of the jury."

Patrick stood and allowed himself to be handcuffed. He didn't look happy despite having gotten off lighter than he should have. In fact, he still threw a stony glare in Jimmy's direction.

He turned to Will. "How long?"

"I'm sorry?"

"How long will he get?"

Will frowned. He had hoped for a full conviction of course, but he wasn't about to challenge the ruling. Not now. "Probably ten or so."

"Ten years?" Jimmy asked with a gulp. In ten years, Patrick McConnell would probably be a free man, free to come after him.

"Yes, that's right." Will didn't feel it necessary to mention the possibility of parole.

"B-but…"

"Jimmy, you've done all you could. At this point, we're lucky to have even gotten what we did. He'll be in jail."

"And when he gets out?"

"I'll let you know. Don't worry. Nothing is going to happen."

* * *

><p><em>Present Day<em>

He hadn't had the dream in a while, but as Jimmy slept with Tim keeping watch, he relived that day over and over. Hearing the verdict, being horrified, realizing that Patrick wouldn't be locked away forever. The dream ran on loop in his mind, and not always the same as it had been. Sometimes in the dream Patrick didn't get any jail time. Sometimes he killed Jimmy right there and then. It made him appreciative when Tim woke him up to take over.

Aside from the dreams, the night was uneventful, though still terrifying. Ever sound made him jump. A twig would snap or an owl would hoot and he'd find himself slamming his foot on the gas, momentarily forgetting that they couldn't go anywhere. He was grateful when he saw the first signs of the sun coming up. At least the darkness was gone.

"Finally," Tim grumbled as he awoke. "I thought we'd never see daylight again."

"So what's the plan? Are we going to go look for a way to the road?"

"Yeah," Tim said. "Better that than staying here like sitting ducks." He stretched his back which was none too happy after a night in a cramped car. He wished he had his travel bag with him, the one he brought for camping excursions. At least then they'd have a compass and water. His mouth ran dry as he thought about the water; he was so thirsty. "I'm starting to regret getting Mexican last night."

"Me too," Jimmy said. "For more reasons than one."

They each took another couple of aspirin before easing their way out of the car. Jimmy retrieved Tim's bag from the trunk. "You hold it," Tim said.

Jimmy nodded and slung it over his shoulder. "What've you got in here?"

"A few rounds for my gun, my back-up weapon, a knife, book, and my gym clothes," he rattled off. "Not much that can help us get out of here, but it may be useful if Patrick decides to come back and finish off the job."

Jimmy winced just thinking about the possibility.

They walked a few feet from the car and then stopped. "Which way to go?" Jimmy asked.

Tim hesitated, not sure exactly. He closed his eyes and tried to visualize the woods and road. He couldn't remember exactly where they had been run off the road, but they had definitely gotten at least half-way through, so they had been heading east. That meant they were now facing south. "Well, if we continue this way," he said, pointing east, "we should hit my usual camping area. From there, I'll have a better idea of how to get out of here.

"You're sure that's the right way?"

"No, but right now we don't have too many options."

It was a fair point and Jimmy certainly wasn't in any position to argue. "Okay, then. Lead the way."

* * *

><p>They were all keenly aware that something was wrong when Tim was late that morning. When Tony called and received no answer, they were even more certain. By the fifth call that morning, Gibbs sent a message up to Vance and called Abby, telling her to track his phone.<p>

"McGee is never this late," Tony said with a glance at his watch.

"Do you think there has been a car crash?" Ziva asked. "Or something more sinister?"

He shrugged. "I guess we all have targets on our backs."

"Yeah…yeah, I got that, Abbs. Thanks." Gibbs hung up the phone and turned to face them with a grim frown. "No signal from his phone."

"It's shut off?" Tony asked.

"Or destroyed," added Ziva. "Either way, it is not a good sign."

"Agent Gibbs?"

One of the security guards had appeared behind him, followed by a man around Gibbs' age. He was wearing a nicely-tailored suit and holding a briefcase. "This is Mr. Will Babcock. He's looking for Mr. Jimmy Palmer? I believe he is Dr. Mallard's assistant."

Gibbs waved the man over. "Yeah, I'll have Duck send Jimmy up. Thanks."

"So Jimmy is here?" Will asked. There was a particular note of hope in his tone.

"Haven't seen him," Gibbs said as he snatched up the phone. "If he isn't, he should be soon." They noticed Will fidget nervously as he waited.

"_Autopsy_," Ducky said, his usual phone greeting.

"Duck, we've got a guy up here who's looking for Palmer."

"_Yes, well, that makes two of us, Jethro_."

He stiffened and glanced to Will again. "What's that?"

"_I'm afraid Mr. Palmer is running late. He should have been here forty minutes ago. I've tried calling him, but no answer_."

"Yeah, we're having the same problem with McGee."

"_McGee? But isn't he here? I saw his car in the parking lot_."

Gibbs' grip on the phone tightened. "You're sure about that, Duck?"

"_I am quite sure he is the only NCIS employee who drives a Porsche. The MIT bumper sticker is also quite telling_."

"I see. Well, thanks for that, Duck."

"_Is something wrong, Jethro?_"

"I'll have to get back to you one that." He replaced the phone and turned to face the others. Despite only having heard his side of the conversation, they knew there was no good news coming. "Palmer isn't here."

"Palmer _and_ McGee out?" Tony asked incredulously.

"According to Ducky, McGee's car is still in the parking lot."

"So he didn't leave last night?"

"Not in his own car."

Ziva's eyes lit up. "Oh, yes! I remember McGee said he had been having car problems. Perhaps he could not get it started last night. He could have gotten a ride home."

"With Palmer?" Tony suggested.

"Makes sense."

"Excuse me," Will cut in, "but could you please tell me what is going on?"

"Jimmy Palmer is missing, along with one of our agents."

He paled. "That's what I was afraid of." He placed his briefcase on Ziva's desk and popped it open. "Yesterday, a man by the name of Patrick McConnell was released on parole. He had been sentenced to jail for aggravated assault and Jimmy Palmer was the star witness," he explained as he retrieved some files from the case. "Last night, a group of teenagers reported seeing a man along a stretch of Old Creek Road who looked as though he'd been in an accident.

"Old Creek Road?" Ziva echoed. "That is the road McGee takes during his commute. If Jimmy did give him a ride home, they would have gone through there."

"McConnell claimed to have swerved to avoid a deer," Will continued, "and the teens followed him to the police station to file the report, just in case his car broke down. Thing is, no such file was ever reported. When they gave the car's license plate, it was traced back to Gregory McConnell, Patrick's father. They described the driver as being in his thirties, ruling out the older McConnell."

He turned to Gibbs and handed him the file on the case. "I'm afraid Jimmy may be in trouble. Mr. McConnell never struck me as the kind of man to forgive and forget."

"Paroled only yesterday?" Gibbs asked as he opened the file. "He moves fast."

"If McGee was with him…" Tony trailed off; everyone knew what he was implying.

"Grab your gear," Gibbs said. "We'll cover ever inch of that area."

"If McConnell's car was totaled, it stands to reason he was using it as a weapon," Tony said.

"Well, I assume he did not run them over," Ziva said, "or else the teens who saw him would have seen the bodies as well."

Gibbs nodded. "They were in a car, not on foot. He probably used his truck to push the car over the edge." He turned to Will. "How far is the drop?"

"I'm not sure."

"Far enough to kill?"

"Possibly. It all depends."

The four of them walked to the elevator in tandem and Tony jabbed the down button. "At least Palmer isn't alone. McGee should be armed."

"If he is alive."

"Nice positive thoughts there, Ziva."

"I am just being realistic, Tony. Even if he is still alive, that fall likely hurt them both. I do not know how well they will be able to fight back."

"They'll fight back," Gibbs said. Neither Tim nor Jimmy was a quitter. He'd seen Tim push through a lot in his time on the team, never letting his wounds get in his way. As for Jimmy, while not quite as accustomed to these sorts of things, he had faced danger before, even going so far as to confront the suspect in an effort to keep him from escaping. They were tenacious. They would keep going until the bitter end.

* * *

><p>Patrick pulled up along the side of the road. The car stunk of alcohol and mold and had cost him, but he'd have it for the entire day. He had decided to park along the side and walk, figuring it would be easier to find the spot on foot than while speeding by in a car. If someone passed by it wouldn't seem too suspicious; it was a scenic area and it wasn't unusual for people to stop and take in Mother Nature. He didn't really give a crap about nature, of course; he'd have been just as happy if he were walking along a city street or through some back alleys. But he did appreciate the fact that the area was quiet…and empty.<p>

As he walked, Patrick considered what he would do when this was all done. He couldn't stay in the state, of course. When the authorities found the body—_if_ they found it—he would be the first and most obvious suspect. He had ideas of where he could go. Mexico was always an option, as was Brazil. In fact, any place south of the United States would suit him fine. They were always looking for doctors. The fact that he hadn't completed his degree wouldn't mean much. If he played his cards right he could even get rich off of it, maybe do a little work for the black market.

Getting out would be simple enough. He didn't have many possessions and he had already figured out that his parole officer was an imbecile. He already had a fake ID and passport made up. He just had to hop a plane and fly to freedom. With any luck, by this time tomorrow he would be sitting on a beach enjoying a Mai Tai. He could already taste it.

He was pulled from his thoughts of warm sun and women in bikinis when something crunched beneath his foot. When he looked down, he found that he had stepped on a chunk of glass…a rather large chunk of glass at that. And it wasn't the only piece. The entire ground was covered in shattered glass, as though a window at shattered near that very spot. He also noticed a cigarette nearby, not unlike the one he'd smoked last night.

His face split into a half-grin; this was the place.


	6. Chapter 6

"You need to sit?" Tim asked Jimmy who was bent over, hands on his knees, breathing heavily. They had been walking for only half an hour, but it looked like the previous restless night had taken its toll.

Jimmy waved him off. "Nah…I'll be fine. I'm just not used to walking quite so much.' Even as he said it, his voice was shaky and rasping. What he wouldn't have given for a sip of water. "How much further?"

"I told you, I'm not sure. I don't know my way around this part of the woods. I'm hoping it's no more than a couple of miles."

A couple of miles? Jimmy almost fainted right there. He'd been pushing himself all morning and had only gotten that far out of sheer will, not to mention fear of having to face Patrick again. He didn't know how much longer he could run solely on determination and fear. "In that case, maybe I should sit. Is that okay?"

"Yeah, but we need to make it quick." Tim didn't express his frustration about Jimmy's lack of energy. He knew he had been there all too many times on the team, the one holding them back. Besides, Jimmy couldn't help it and he hadn't exactly signed on for all of this.

No point in him not getting some rest while Jimmy sat, so Tim took up a spot beside him under the tree. They both leaned back against the trunk and allowed their eyes to close. The sun was getting higher in the sky, adding to their weariness and making them even more parched than before.

"You know," Jimmy began after a few minutes of silence, "I'd always had a feeling this was how it would end."

"What's that?"

"Patrick; I knew he'd end up coming after me. During the trial, I remember catching his eyes while I was on the stand. I lost my place for a second and Mr. Babcock had to get me back on track. I'd been so shaken by his eyes. The coldness in them. They were like…ice. I knew then and there that when he got out, he'd come for me. And he did. I'm just sorry that you got involved in this too."

"It's not your fault, Jimmy. Besides, at least you're not alone here. Two heads are better than one."

"I guess. Though, speaking of heads…" He brought a hand up to his forehead and began massaging his temples. "Mine is killing me."

"Guess we should have brought the aspirin?" Tim suggested. His arm had gone from stabbing pain to a dull throb, but he could have done with a couple of meds. "I'm not looking forward to getting this thing put into a cast. Think it'll hurt?"

"I went to Med School, McGee; I know it'll hurt."

"Worse than a displaced shoulder?"

"You want the truth or a lie?"

"May as well tell me the truth."

"This will probably hurt so much more."

Tim groaned and instinctively brought his good arm up to his broken one. "Great. Guess I have that to look forward to. Not to mention desk duty until God knows when."

"Maybe Patrick will get here before that and just put us out of our misery," Jimmy said with a dark laugh.

"C'mon, Jimmy; let's at least try to be optimistic." Tim pushed himself back against the tree and used it to push himself up to a standing position so he didn't have to put any pressure on his arm. He was still tired, but he knew they had to get going. When they got to a road, they could sit. "Get up."

"Five more minutes," he grumbled, sounding like a kid talking to his mom after he's been woken up for school.

"Walk for another thirty minutes and I'll give you five more minutes. Now up," he said, nudging Jimmy with his toe.

"Fine." Jimmy pulled himself back up, steadying himself against the tree. Between the headache and the heat, he was starting to feel delirious. He needed water; they both did. "We'll go a little further. Maybe we'll find someplace for some water?" he asked hopefully.

"Yeah," Tim said as they started walking, "maybe." There were a couple of streams around with water for the drinking. "I just wish I knew what time it was. By now, someone's got to realize we're not at work, right?"

"Do you think they'll try to find us?"

"If they know where to look. They probably don't even know you gave me a ride last night."

"What was all that you said about being optimistic?"

"Even my optimism can only go so far."

* * *

><p>Unbeknownst to the pair, Patrick was already on their trail, and he was gaining ground as they walked. Getting down into the woods had been no simple feat, but seven years in prison had given him the time to tone up. Once he'd managed to grab hold of a nearby tree limb, it had been a matter of crawling down the side.<p>

The car had been there, totaled, of course; surprisingly, though, there had been no one inside. "Guess Palmer has more spunk than he did in college," he'd mused as he'd set off. Luckily for him, the dirt was wet, leaving a tidy trail of footprints for him to follow. Not only did he have the benefit of having slept well the previous night, but he was also in better health than either Tim or Jimmy, with no broken bones or headaches and no lack of water or nutrients. In the time it took them to walk fifty feet, he could easily make it one hundred feet.

One of them had a gun, that much he knew. The bullet holes in the truck were proof enough of that. He wasn't sure which it was—probably not Palmer—nor did he know if they had anymore ammo, but he would have to tread carefully. Whoever had shot at him had had good enough aim to almost hit him more than once. If he wasn't careful, he could end up with more holes in him than Swiss cheese. His best bet would be to take out the other one first and then go back for Palmer (who probably couldn't hit the broadside of a barn).

With luck, it would be like shooting fish in a barrel.

* * *

><p>"But I do not understand it, Tony. Why would there be fish in a barrel, and why would you want to shoot them?"<p>

Tony responded with an exaggerated sigh. "You know what, Ziva? It's probably best that you just not try to think about it, okay? It's an American thing."

The three of them were currently speeding along, having convinced Will he would be better suited staying at NCIS headquarters until they called. There was no point in getting a civilian in the crosshairs of things. While his concern for Jimmy was touching, he had no place in this and would have only served as a distraction.

"So this McConnell guy tries to kill someone and Palmer accidentally stumbled upon it, becoming the star witness in the trial against a really angry guy," Tony summarized, having been in the process of reading the file Will had forwarded. "Wonder why the Autopsy Gremlin never mentioned it."

"Perhaps he mentioned it to people who do not call him by such an unflattering nickname."

"Oh, so you're saying he confided in you, Ziva?"

"No, but you can hardly be surprised that it was not a topic he liked to speak about."

"What do you know about McConnell?" Gibbs pressed, trying to keep them on track.

"Mother left when he was a kid and his father's had his own troubles with the law—mostly DUIs and bar fights. He was released yesterday and checked into a halfway house."

"What about his parole officer?"

"That would be a guy by the name of Buddy Lawson. He's been notified."

"And?"

Tony winced, knowing the next bit of information would not be well-received. "Uh, he said McConnell wasn't at the halfway house this morning. One of the other guys living there—a junkie—said he leant McConnell his car in exchange for some nose candy."

"Why would one make candy for the nose?"

"He means cocaine," Gibbs said. "So our perp is out there somewhere with a car. How much do you want to guess he's heading the same place we're heading?"

"Or he's gotten there already." Tony didn't deem it necessary to finish that thought.

* * *

><p>"Okay, McGee…let's take another break," Jimmy pleaded. His face was growing red with exhaustion and he was covered with more grime and sweat than he had ever been before.<p>

"We can't, Jimmy. We've only been walking for ten minutes."

"That's all I can do right now. Please…just let me…"

Tim groaned, at a crossroads. On the one hand he wanted to keep moving. On the other, they weren't exactly covering much ground anyway. He practically had to drag Jimmy, something made even more difficult by the broken arm. If he pushed him too far he might pass out, and then where would they be? "Okay, here," he said as he helped Jimmy to one of the larger trees. "You sit and I'll go look around. If I can see where we are, maybe I can get help or something." He dropped his bag next to Jimmy and unzipped it, retrieving another round for his gun. "Just in case," he said.

And so Jimmy was left there, dead tired and parched. He slumped over, not caring that the roots provided a less than comfortable pillow. His chest was tight, his mouth dry, and the heat was only increasing. Even the tree did little to shade him from the sun.

"I just need a little sleep…" he murmured to himself before falling into a soft slumber.

* * *

><p>It was sheer luck that Patrick stumbled across him at all. He had lost track of their footprints and had decided to just keep following in the same direction. Somehow he had gotten ahead of them, though. When he'd stopped to get some water from a stream, he'd heard someone approaching. After taking cover behind a tree, a figure had appeared. He was tall and thin with light brown hair. It wasn't Jimmy, though. <em>The other one<em>, he thought to himself. _Perfect_.

A badge clung to the waist of the man's pants but Patrick couldn't read the insignia. _Probably the same place Palmer works_. The man was visibly weary and worn, and his left arm was wrapped inside of what looked like a makeshift sling. A poor injured animal lost in the woods. How could it have been any simpler?

Tim knelt down beside the stream and almost bowed down before it. With his good hand he gently scooped some up and sipped at it. Not exactly like his filtered water at home, but it would do. He scooped more and more up, enjoying the feel of water on his dry tongue. So enthralled was he that he didn't notice someone approaching him until it was too late.

Patrick's hand was around his throat, trying to push his face under the water. Tim fought back, bad arm and all, and, with a leg, managed to knock Patrick off balance well enough to push up to a standing position. He tried to run, but was soon tackled to the ground. He landed on his left arm and let out a strangled cry of pain.

"You picked the wrong night to ride home with Palmer," Patrick said with a grunt. He brought a hand down in a karate chop, striking Tim on the back of the head. He fell to the ground in a heap, unmoving. "See?" Patrick said as he stood. "Now you're not in pain anymore. Consider it my good deed for the day."

So now what? Did he finish this one off and then go for Palmer, or take out the main target now? A smile spread over his face; he had a better idea. He managed to pick Tim up and haphazardly sling him over his shoulder. Then, he headed back the way Tim had come.

* * *

><p>"Boss, that's it!"<p>

"What's it?"

"That's the car McConnell borrowed," Tony said, pointing to the car that was parked alongside the road. Gibbs brought their car to a screeching halt behind it and had the door open before he'd even turned off the ignition.

"So how do we get down there?" asked Ziva as she peered over the edge.

"I don't know," Tony said, "but there's definitely a wreck of a car down there."

"Palmer's?"

"Could be, boss."

"Tony, call local LEOs, tell them to get down there. Then you and Ziva see if there's an easier way of getting to the bottom."

"What about you?"

Gibbs took off his NCIS cap and leaned over the edge, looking down at the drop. "I'm going over."

"Gibbs, you cannot be serious."

"I had to do worse than this in boot camp, Ziva."

"Yes, but that was many years ago," she said awkwardly. While Gibbs undoubtedly had more strength and physical prowess than many others his age, he was no spring rooster…or was that spring chicken?

"I'll be fine, Ziva. Now stop arguing and get moving."

* * *

><p>Jimmy was brought back to consciousness when he heard the sound of approaching footsteps. Assuming it was Tim, returning, he settled back against the tree and waited for him to come into sight.<p>

"Palmer!"

His eyes shot open. That was not Tim's voice.

"Palmer, I know you're around here somewhere."

What to do? Did he shout out for Tim, let him know Patrick was near? Then Patrick would know where he was, of course.

"I've got your friend here," Patrick continued. "I'm willing to let him go in exchange for you."

The voice and footsteps were getting closer. He cautiously peeked out from behind the tree trunk and saw Patrick. He was bigger than Jimmy remembered him being seven years earlier (if that was even possible) and there was a very familiar figure slung over his shoulder. He leaned over and dropped Tim to the ground with a thud. Tim groaned softly and moved his head, but his eyes didn't open.

"So now it's up to you, Palmer. Do you save your friend or save yourself?"

* * *

><p>The descent had been more difficult than even Gibbs could have imagined. He made it to the bottom in one piece, but not without his share of bruises and scratches. If he'd seen anyone else on his team try such a stupid stunt, he would have head slapped them so hard they wouldn't be able to see straight for a week.<p>

With his feet firmly on the ground he peeked into the car, not surprised—but relieved—to see no one in there. Footprints led away from the car. There were two sets walking side-by-side and a third pair that seemed to follow them. Tracking them.

He pulled his gun from its holster and began to follow.

* * *

><p>Jimmy had never imagined himself in this position. His life for the life of a friend? While he knew he couldn't let Tim be killed on his account, walking out there, hands in the air, was far more difficult than it sounded. It was easy to believe you had such courage and selflessness, but when faced with the actual ask, one was very often rooted to the spot.<p>

There were also other things to consider. How much could he trust Patrick's word that he wouldn't kill Tim? He wasn't exactly the kind of person who oozed honesty. Jimmy had a sinking feeling that, no matter what he did, Tim was as good as dead.

So what could he do to stop that?

His eyes trailed across the ground around him, searching for…well, he wasn't sure exactly what he was looking for; something…_anything_.

"Come on, Palmer, be a man. Stop cowering; it's disgusting." He could hear the disdain in Patrick's voice.

"Don't…" It sounded like Tim was starting to come to. "Just…run, Jimmy." A loud 'oof'" indicated that Patrick had given Tim another blow.

"You want to be remembered as a coward for the rest of your life, Palmer? You want to live the rest of your miserable life knowing that you let your friend die in your place?"

He felt his voice catch in his throat as he almost called out. Could he save Tim? Could he save himself? As he searched frantically, he caught sight of Tim's bag…still open. There was another gun in there. Tim had said so. Did he dare? He had never shot a gun before, unless you counted a paintball gun. He hadn't even had a BB gun growing up; he'd preferred more mild mannered hobbies.

Jimmy gently reached in and pulled it out. Did it have bullets? He didn't even know how to check. All he knew was that when you pulled the trigger, a bullet came out. If you aimed it right, you could hurt (or kill) the person; if you aimed incorrectly, you'd just waste a bullet and bring that person down upon you.

He knew he'd only get one chance to make the shot.

"I'm going to give you until the count of ten, Palmer." Patrick had pulled out his own gun. "The second I say 'ten' I pull the trigger, got it? Ten…Nine…"

He pulled the gun against him and slowly shifted his body to the side. God, he hoped the gun was loaded.

"Eight…Seven…Six…"

He tried to remember what he'd seen in all of those action movies and TV shows. How did they hold their guns?

"Five…Four…Three…"

He took a deep breath to steady his shaking hand. He needed his aim to be precise…to be perfect.

"Two…One…"

* * *

><p>Gibbs had tracked the footprints quite a ways into the woods when the gun shot came. His stomach sank and he found himself pushing into a heavy run, despite being tired from the climb down. He ran toward the sound, toward where he had seen birds fly from the trees. His feet slapped the ground as he moved, not thinking or pausing, just moving, ready to do whatever was necessary.<p>

He reached the clearing and his heart stopped. Tim was lying facedown, eyes closed. Just beyond him lay another man…one Gibbs didn't recognize.

There was movement to the side of him and Gibbs spun, gun up, ready to shoot.

"Agent Gibbs!"

"Palmer?"

Jimmy dropped the gun. His hand was shaking and his face was ashen. It was clear he could drop at any moment.

"Palmer, what happened?"

Jimmy's eyes looked to the side, to Tim and Patrick. He took a deep, trembling breath before turning back to Gibbs. "I…I shot him."


	7. Chapter 7

Both men were taken to the hospital; Tim with a broken arm and blow to the head and Jimmy with a concussion. Both of them were severely dehydrated and on the brink of exhaustion, with various cuts and bruises all along their bodies.

Patrick McConnell followed behind the two ambulances in the back of Ducky's truck.

* * *

><p>"Among his belongings we found a fake ID and fake passport," Ziva said after the team—in this case consisting of Gibbs, Ziva, Tony, and Ducky—collected in the hospital room that was being occupied by Tim and Jimmy. Both of them were up, Tim being fairly lucid from the morphine being pumped into his body.<p>

"Sounds like he was planning to leave the country," Gibbs said.

Jimmy frowned. "Yeah, once he tied up his remaining loose end." Despite knowing that the man who had frequently haunted his dreams these last seven years was now dead, he was still shaken by the experience. His eyes seemed to sink back into the sockets, giving him a peaked appearance.

Will had rushed by when news of the rescue had reached NCIS. Though touched by the DA's concern for him, Jimmy just wanted to get some rest and forget about this, forget about everything concerning Patrick McConnell and the trial. He wanted to pretend, just for a while, that the entire thing had been a horrible dream. He wanted that even more now.

"Nice shot you got in there, Palmer," Tony said, giving Jimmy a gentle nudge on the shoulder. "I didn't think you had it in you."

"Me neither," Jimmy muttered. And he really hadn't. He remembered closing his eyes and pulling the trigger, praying that the bullet would hit its target. The fact that when he opened his eyes he saw blood seeping from Patrick and not from Tim had come as a complete shock to him.

"I suspect," Ducky began, "that when the occasion calls for it, we are all far more capable than even we believe ourselves to be." He gave Jimmy a proud smile as though he were a father congratulating his son. "It is in those moments that we show our true characters."

Jimmy ducked his head down, slightly embarrassed by the sudden praise. "Well, I wouldn't have gotten even as far as I did if McGee hadn't pushed me. I was ready to give up."

"Nah, you'd have kept going," Tim said, his words starting to slur together. His eyes were heavy, a combination of the frightening ordeal and the medication he'd been given. "You've got more strength than you give yourself credit for."

With Patrick dead—and Jimmy having pulled the trigger—there would, of course, be an investigation, but there was no reason any judicial action should be taken. Jimmy had shot him to defend both Tim and himself, no other reason.

As the guests trickled out under the watchful eye of the on-call nurse, Tim and Jimmy were both given well wishes and congratulatory pats for their quick action. Tony promised to return the next day with movies and Gibbs warned them that Abby would be coming the next day as well. "Get ready for some tight hugs," was his last comment before disappearing out the door.

* * *

><p>The sun had already set some hours before, so the pair was left in the dark. Tim was on the brink of sleep, but Jimmy—despite feeling worn—suddenly found himself unable to settle down. His heart was still thumping just as hard as it had been when he'd felt the shooting gun recoil, snapping his body back and knocking him onto his rear. His mind was running rampant, thinking about the past twenty-four hours.<p>

"McGee?"

"Hmm?"

"…I killed him." He said it as though the idea had just sprung into his mind "I took a life."

Tim's eyes managed to open on that, recognizing that tone all too well. A first kill was never good; it was even worse when you'd never trained for such a thing. "You did what you had to do to protect us."

"I know. But I still killed him."

"And do you feel guilty about that?"

"No." The confession came as a surprise to him. "I feel relieved. Does that make me a bad person?"

Tim almost smiled. "No, Jimmy, it just makes you human. You've conquered the monster."

"I guess." He was silent for a few minutes more. "Dr. Mallard told me I was a hero."

"You are."

"Not really."

"Yes," Tim said with as much force as he could muster, "you are. You saved my life, Jimmy. I can't think of anymore more heroic."

But Jimmy wasn't convinced. He was a nobody. He was that dorky guy who always said the wrong thing and did the wrong thing and who had never really been able to do anything worth of note. But he wasn't about to argue the point further. "If you say so."

"I say so." Tim let out a long exhale, letting his body sink into the uncomfortable hospital bed. "Now I don't know about you, but I sure as hell can use some sleep." Jimmy wasn't surprised when he heard snores only a minute later.

Despite his beating heart, Jimmy too found himself drifting off to sleep, the horror they'd experienced becoming little more than a dust mite in his memory.

* * *

><p><em>June 2003<em>

"That took a lot of guts, Jimmy."

"Really, Mr. Babcock?" He and Will were enjoying lunch at a local deli, a sort of celebration for having gotten through the second trial. Seeing Jimmy's dejected look at the verdict, Will had offered to treat him and Jimmy had accepted.

"Of course. I've overseen a lot of trials and have lost a lot of them because someone didn't have the guts to testify. Not that I blame them; it's not an easy thing to do."

Jimmy was quick to protest. "But he only got a few years," he said. "I screwed up."

"You didn't screw anything up. You did exactly what you were supposed to; you told the truth. Sometimes even when you do everything right, you don't get what you want. It doesn't invalidate your courage to face McConnell."

"I guess." Jimmy poked at his sandwich, picking it apart rather than actually eating it. He had very little appetite. "I just don't feel very brave."

"Why is that? You think most people could have gotten up there and faced a criminal?"

"I think anyone there could see I was so scared I was about to sh—" He stopped short of using that word and sheepishly continued. "I was scared, Mr. Babcock, and it showed. I know it did."

Will was quiet for a second before stating, "'Courage is not the absence of fear, but rather the judgment that something else is more important than fear.' Ambrose Redmoon said that."

"Who?"

Will resisted the urge to grimace. Ah, youth. "It doesn't matter who he was. What's important are his words. Everyone is afraid, Jimmy. The true show of courage is doing something even though it scares you. Don't you think I'm frightened of every dangerous criminal I put in jail, afraid that one will come back and bite me in the ass? I am; but I do it anyway, because I know it's the right thing to do."

Jimmy nodded sullenly.

"I have to get back to the office," Will said as he stood, grabbing his coat from the back of his chair. "The law sleeps for no man."

"Thanks, Mr. Babcock. For lunch. And everything else."

"Thank _you_, Jimmy. I wish there were more people out there like you."

Jimmy flushed at the flattering comment, not sure how to respond other than a small smile. "I just wish I had made more of a difference."

"Every thing we do makes differences in this world. Be them big or small, we can always know that we're responsible for them. You don't have to wear a cape and emblem to make a difference. Take pride in what you've done. You deserve it."

It was hard for Jimmy to think of taking pride in something that seemed so minute in the grand scheme of things. He had a hard time taking praise from others, let alone allowing kudos from himself.

"Hey, Jimmy." He looked up from his meal. Will was at the door, one hand holding it open, facing Jimmy with a proud grin, the kind a parent reserved for a child. "You'll always be a hero in my eyes."

_Hero_. The word sunk into him, soaking it in as if he were a sponge and the word were water. He didn't consider himself a hero. He didn't consider himself brave or even notable. He was just plain old Jimmy Palmer, the kind of guy who was happy if he could even blend in with a crowd.

Maybe someday I the future he'd be able to face danger without flinching and do something that really made him feel brave, made him feel worth something. But now someone thought him more than just average; someone thought him a hero, despite his having done so little.

For now, that was good enough for him.

* * *

><p><strong>AN: <strong>Thus ends our tale! Thank you to all who have read. I hope you enjoyed it.


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